by Linda Howard
Describing the other place wasn’t going to be easy, because words literally couldn’t impart the utter tranquillity and joy, the quiet beauty. But right now he wasn’t asking where she’d gone, just the process of getting there.
“Light. No tunnel.” Had she missed out on something, or had she gone too fast?
“Just light? Hmm.”
There it was, the doubt, the instinctive fallback on the science he knew. Bright light could be explained by a misfiring, dying brain. She wondered how he could square that with her lack of brain damage. Because she didn’t want to steer him wrong, and because she held a grudge against him, she voiced the random thought that had earlier popped into her head. “Stop screwing around on your wife.”
He paled, then turned red again. “What?”
“She’s going to find out, if you don’t stop.” Suddenly irritated, she pulled the sheet higher, as if she wanted to shut him out. “If you don’t love her, then get a divorce, but keep your pants zipped until then. Act like a grown-up.”
“Wha—? What?” He said the same word for the third time, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s.
“Believe me now?” She scowled at him. She would have flounced on her side and turned her back on him, but flouncing was out of the question. Instead she just narrowed her eyes at him and silently dared him to deny her accusation, though he was more likely to tell her to mind her own business.
She could see him struggling not to do exactly that. He was in his early fifties, a man who had spent his entire adult life perfecting the science and the skill with which he saved lives. Like most surgeons, he had a healthy ego, which was a polite way of saying it was monstrously huge. Doing what he did required a huge helping of self-confidence, and he was accustomed to being the boss. Finding himself abruptly called on the carpet by a woman whose life he had saved, and who undoubtedly owed him a large amount of money for his services, wouldn’t go down easy.
He started to snap back at her. She saw it, and scowled harder at him. “Don’t start doubting just because I didn’t see a tunnel. I guess some people do. I didn’t. I had a tree stuck through me—a small one, but still a tree—and I went fast. So sue me.”
He crossed his arms again and rocked back on his heels, a man who wasn’t inclined to surrender without a fight. “If you had a real near-death experience, you’re supposed to be mellow and happy.”
“I didn’t have a ‘near death’ experience, I had a death experience. I died,” she said flatly. “I was given a second chance. So far as I know, having that second chance doesn’t mean I have to fake being in a good mood. If you want to know what I remember, how about this: I remember looking down and seeing a guy go through my purse, then steal my laptop. Did he get all my money?”
He was so easy to read, even now, when he was trying to school his expression. His shock was evident, at least to her.
“No, I believe there was a considerable amount of cash still in your purse, but no ID, and no credit cards.”
She hadn’t had any credit cards, but she didn’t tell him that. So only her ID was missing? Strange. Why take her driver’s license and not her cash?
“You didn’t have any vehicle registration in your car, either. I believe Detective Arrons wants to discuss that with you.”
She imagined he did, plus the bogus license plate. She’d worry about that later. For now, she waved it away. “If the money was still there, it can go to my hospital bill. I’m not a charity case.”
“I’m not worried about—”
“Maybe you aren’t, but the hospital is.”
“While you’re in such a chatty mood, what’s your name?”
“Andie,” she said promptly. “What’s yours?”
“Travis. Last name?”
She had always thought fast on her feet, but all of a sudden she was drawing a blank. Nothing, absolutely nothing, came to mind. She simply couldn’t come up with a fake last name. She stared at him, frowning. “I’m thinking,” she finally said.
His brows knit a little. “You don’t remember?”
“Of course I remember. It’s there. Give me a minute.” If Rafael thought she was dead, there was no reason for him ever to check to see if anyone with her name popped up anywhere. To be on the safe side, though, she should use a different name. Would that be completely screwing up her second chance, lying to protect herself? Maybe lying was bad when it hurt someone else, but not so bad otherwise.
She should have asked for training, or at least a set of guidelines.
“Andie,” she said again, hoping for inspiration.
“You’ve already said that. Is it short for Andrea?”
“Yes.” What else could she say? She couldn’t think of any other female name that started with A-n-d. She wasn’t about to tell him her last name was Butts, no matter what. Finally she gave up, shrugging. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He had his pen out, making a note on her medical records.
Immediately her attention zoomed in another direction. “I’m not brain-damaged,” she charged irritably. “It’s all your fault. I’m just drugged enough that I can’t think, but not drugged enough that it stops me from hurting. Have you ever stopped to think how it feels, having your chest sawed open and pulled apart and your heart manhandled? Huh? I have staples in me. I feel like a legal file or something, I have so many staples in me. You could build a house with my staples. And what do you do? You cut down on my painkillers. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
She stopped, confused by her own lack of control. She never went off on anyone like that. She smiled, and acted sweet. Why was she turning into a bitch? But she also stopped because he was laughing. Laughing.
She could be friends with this man. “Sit down,” she invited, “and I’ll tell you about the other place.”
SIMON HAD MADE a lifelong habit of resisting temptation, but this one wore him down. The idea was always there, nagging at him, and he couldn’t let it go.
He couldn’t forget Drea’s death. He couldn’t forget her face, or the way her expression had suddenly lit with joy just as she died. He couldn’t forget her. Her death had left an ache in him that he couldn’t explain, or get rid of.
He’d shown Salinas the picture he’d taken with his cell phone, showed him Drea’s driver’s license. Salinas had blanched when he saw the picture, then sat silently for a moment. Finally he said, “Tell me where to wire your fee.”
“Forget about it,” Simon had said. “I didn’t do the job; she had a wreck.” He’d tracked her, though, and driving too fast trying to escape him was why she’d had the wreck. Had it been anyone else, he’d have taken his fee without hesitation. While he hadn’t killed her, he had definitely caused her death; still, for the first time he couldn’t take a fee for someone’s death.
This was different.
He didn’t want it to be different. He didn’t want to feel as though a huge hollow had opened up in his life, as though he’d lost something so important he couldn’t even begin to imagine the depth of that loss. He wanted to forget the utter bliss with which she’d met her death.
But he couldn’t, and in the weeks since, he’d been driven by a gnawing compulsion to find her grave. There had been more than enough cash in her purse to pay for a decent burial. Would the state try to identify her first, keep her in a morgue while a slow-motion search for family was made? Or would she be photographed, DNA samples taken, then promptly buried?
If it was the first, maybe he could claim her body. He’d buy the most beautiful, serene cemetery plot he could find, and put her there. A granite headstone would mark the beginning and end of her life. He could put flowers there, and visit her occasionally.
And if she’d already been buried, he could make certain a stone was put there, and he could still take flowers to her. He just needed to know where she was.
Finding her should be easy, he thought. He knew where the accident had happened, so all he had to do was check the newspapers for the area. A traffi
c fatality, an unidentified woman—five minutes, tops, and he’d know.
He gave in to temptation, and sat down at his computer. Finding her didn’t take five minutes. It took two minutes and seven seconds.
He read everything twice, shaking his head in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. The newspaper had got it wrong; happened all the time. He checked the next day’s edition for an update, a correction. Instead, it said the same thing. Her name wasn’t known, she was a Jane Doe, but—
God. He felt as if he’d grabbed a live wire and had the hell knocked out of him. The shock was so great that he realized, with an odd kind of remoteness, that he was breathing hard and fast, and his vision had narrowed until he saw nothing but the lit computer screen. It wasn’t possible. He’d watched her die, watched her eyes dull and her pupils fix. He’d felt for the pulse in her neck, and there hadn’t been one.
But something had happened. Somehow the medics must have revived her, kept her going long enough to get her to a hospital. He didn’t know how, it had to be a fucking miracle, but right now the how didn’t matter.
Drea was alive.
20
SIMON FLEW INTO DENVER THAT NIGHT. HE CARRIED ONLY one small bag, so he could leave directly from the arrival gate instead of dealing with the hassle of luggage claim. He had no weapons on him, and no need to procure any. He just wanted to see Drea for himself, to make sure it was really her, and to find out what had happened.
There must be some mistake. The woman in the hospital probably wasn’t Drea. It would be a hell of a coincidence if there were two Jane Does, one alive and one dead, and the live one would be more newsworthy than the dead one. Drea’s accident had happened a good distance away, in a far less populated area; the report of an unidentified accident victim might not have made it into any newspaper at all.
Or, worst case, the medics had somehow revived Drea, but she was either brain dead or had very limited function, maybe just enough activity in her brain stem to keep her lungs working and her heart beating, though how her heart could beat after what had happened, he didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine any surgeon doing the kind of extensive repair job that would be needed, if one were even possible, on someone who was either brain dead or in a severe vegetative state.
That was why he thought the woman couldn’t be Drea. He didn’t want it to be Drea, not with the brain damage she would have suffered.
But if it was, if the woman really was Drea and some damn fool had kept her body alive even though her brain was gone, he’d take care of her. He’d find the best place in the country for her, someplace where her body would be tenderly cared for. He might visit her occasionally, though seeing her like that would be even tougher than watching her die. He had no legal right to make any decisions concerning her care, but fuck that. He had the money to make it happen, and if anyone stood in his way he’d simply take her. He made a living being where he wasn’t supposed to be, and doing things he wasn’t supposed to do.
He checked into a hotel for the night. There would be more people coming and going at the hospital during the day, making it easier for him to blend in. Days were busy, with outpatient tests, visitors in and out all day, flowers and newspapers being delivered, food and medical supplies coming in; he would be one more face in the crowd. In his experience, people working the night shift lived in a smaller world and tended to notice strangers more.
First, he’d have to find out if the Jane Doe was still in the hospital. Over two weeks had passed; if the woman in question wasn’t Drea, she might already have been released—or she might have simply walked out because people without ID usually had something to hide. If she was no longer there, then obviously she wasn’t Drea, and he could go home. If her injuries had been severe and she was still there, then he’d have to see her to make certain she was or was not Drea. Back before hospitals got so pissy about privacy, he could have placed a call and learned all he needed to know, but now information was given out only to immediate family. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out things, just that it would be a little harder.
He was at the hospital before six o’clock the next morning, waiting for the shift to change. Could be some of the hospital staff worked twelve-hour shifts, which might be from six to six, or seven to seven, and he didn’t know who his target would be. He’d have to work fast; he might have hours, depending on how alert the target was—though, coming off a long night shift, probably not all that alert—or he might have no more than thirty minutes. But shift change was the time to move in, when distraction was high.
He went in through the emergency room entrance, which was always busy, then located the elevators and the directory. ICU was on the seventh floor. A harried-looking woman, her face lined with exhaustion and worry, hurried in just as the elevator doors were closing. She had probably been to the cafeteria, because she carried a large cup of coffee. She punched the button for the fourth floor. After she exited, he rode the rest of the way alone.
The glassed-in ICU waiting room was full of bleary-eyed people camped out in the cramped room, some almost literally, bringing sleeping bags, snacks, books, and anything else to make the long dreary hours more comfortable. A coffeemaker was set up on a table, making popping noises as it spewed out a fresh brew. Several tall stacks of polystyrene cups stood sentinel next to the pot.
The heavy doors to the ICU, operated by a pressure plate on the wall, were directly across from the waiting room. The glass walls allowed him to watch the doors from inside the waiting room, and while he waited for a shift change he might be able to glean some information from the relatives who had stood watch through the night, desperately hoping their loved ones would live or stoically waiting for the end. Sharing an ICU waiting room was almost like sharing a foxhole; everyone was in a crisis situation and information flowed like water.
He found an empty chair where he could watch the ICU, then leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. His body language suggested despair, an emotion with which everyone in that room was on intimate terms. He kept his head just high enough that he could still see the ICU doors.
He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t look around; he just sat there, the very picture of misery. Within a minute, the gray-haired woman on his left asked in a sympathetic tone, “Do you have a family member here?”
She meant in the unit, of course. “My mother,” he said in a strained voice. An ICU always had plenty of elderly people in it, so that was a safe choice, plus appearing as a devoted son always put people at ease. “Stroke.” He swallowed hard. “A severe one. They think…they think she might be brain dead.”
“Oh, that’s tough. I’m so sorry,” she said. “But don’t give up hope yet. My husband works construction. A month ago he fell from four stories up, broke almost every bone in his body. I thought I’d lost him.” Her voice trembled with remembered despair. “I’d been trying to talk him into retirement and he’d finally promised me next year, then this happened and I just knew he’d never get to enjoy all the hunting and fishing trips he’d planned with our son. No one thought he’d make it, but he’s still holding on, and now they think that maybe next week he can be moved into a regular room.”
“That’s good,” he murmured, looking down at his hands. “I’m glad. But my mother—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I found her too late.” He threw in a bit of guilt, to make the pot bubble. “They’re running tests now, but if she’s brain dead…”
“Even the best doctor doesn’t know everything there is to know about the human body,” broke in a burly, red-faced guy seated on the other side of the gray-haired woman. “A couple of weeks ago they brought in a woman who’d been in a car wreck, ran off the road and hit a tree. Tree branch went right through her chest.”
There it was, exactly what he needed to know, and he didn’t even have to get into the ICU itself. Simon controlled his expression as his attention was caught with a painful jerk. That was Drea. Beyond a doubt, that was her. The relief
came as a roller-coaster ride in his stomach, but then abruptly it knotted with dread. She might have survived the wreck, but in what kind of shape? Would she ever be able to function? Walk, talk, recognize anyone? He tried to speak and couldn’t, his throat so tight he could barely breathe.
The gray-haired woman patted his arm in sympathy, evidently thinking he was on the verge of tears. The simple, compassionate gesture startled him. People didn’t touch him so casually, so easily. There had always been something about him that made people keep their distance, something cold and lethal to which this woman was evidently impervious. Drea had touched him, though; she’d put her hand on his chest, she had clung to him and kissed him, her mouth as tender and hungry as if she couldn’t resist the urge. The memory made him swallow convulsively, and that loosened his throat enough that he managed to talk. “I think I read something about that,” he lied, choking the words out.
“The medics said she was dead at the scene. They were packing everything up when one of them heard her gasping. They swore she hadn’t had a pulse, but all of a sudden she did. They had to cut the branch off so they could bring her in, because they figured if they pulled it out they’d do even more damage, plus the branch must somehow have been pressing against her aorta, kept her from bleeding to death.” The burly guy crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They thought for sure she’d be brain dead, but she wasn’t. Took over eighteen hours of surgery to patch her up, then…was it three days ago when they moved her?”
“Two. Day before yesterday,” said the gray-haired woman, picking up the story.
“They moved her into a regular room. I heard she’s doing fine, but I also heard she can’t talk, so maybe there was some brain damage.”
“She’s started talking,” someone else said. “She said something to one of the nurses. They were all talking about it.”
“That’s amazing,” Simon said, his stomach doing the loop-the-loop again, this time joined by his heart. With distant amazement, he realized he might pass out—or vomit. Or both. She was doing fine. She was talking.